But at that moment the teacher entered, a man of indeterminate middle age. He had the callused hands of a musician and carried his own lyre, carved of dark walnut. “Who is this?” he asked. His voice was harsh and loud. A musician, but not a singer. “This is Patroclus,” Achilles said. “He does not play, but he will learn.” “Not on that instrument.” The man’s hand swooped down to pluck the lyre from my hands. Instinctively, my fingers tightened on it. It was not as beautiful as my mother’s lyre, but it was still a princely instrument. I did not want to give it up. I did not have to. Achilles had
...more
uh oh i may already love him
